Letters From War
by Gunney
Summary: It's 1975 and a lonely Air Force Lieutenant has been tasked with sorting through boxes of old paperwork from WWII. To his surprise he comes across a collection of handwritten letters from a handful of POWs in Germany. None of the letters were ever mailed and most of them leave more questions than answers.
1. From The Closet Of:

**Official Air Force Records**

 **Document No. 198652348-B45**

 **Date – Unknown**

 **Origin – Personal Correspondence – Col. R. Hogan**

* * *

From The Closet Of: Col. R. E. Hogan

Dear Dad,

How are you?

How's Mom?

The dog? The cat?

The car?

It's unbelievable sometimes the fixes I get myself into. If you knew even half of what I've done since being 'captured'. Well…frankly, Dad, you'd be proud I think. The bridges, the bombs, the capers.

Except for this one. This one takes the cake! Worse still I have nobody to blame for it but myself. If I had listened to that little voice in my head, stepped back a few paces and really considered what I was setting myself up for.

I wouldn't be stuck in a supply closet, for one thing. I also wouldn't be two hours late for roll call, my men wouldn't be desperately trying to cover for me, and Corporal Newkirk wouldn't be out there right now playing secretary.

I'm a sitting duck!

It's just that all the pieces fell so sweetly into place! A handful of maps, delivered by courier to Luftwaffe headquarters in Hammelburg, right into the office of a Colonel who is about to be transferred.

Gregor Johann. You wouldn't know him. Mole-like face, short stature, giant mustache. The guy wears lifts. Very tacky.

Anytime the Krauts start moving their people around there's a little pandemonium, and that means I can stick just about anybody in a uniform and try to get them inside the heart of the German war machine. Usually.

I don't know what this Colonel Johann's deal is, but for a guy that's been absent for most of his military career, he sure picked a rotten time to become soldier of the month.

I can hear him now. He's been pacing for about three hours, and he's been dictating the war's longest letter to Newkirk, without so much as a smoke break. Newkirk has to be going crazy. And he's not a whiz at short hand, either. His German grammar is atrocious on paper.

But Newkirk can't fake it. Colonel Johann keeps demanding that Newkirk repeat the letter back to him. He's been trying to find another word for 'outrage' for the past five minutes. He used 'emporung' three times in the last paragraph.

But I digress, it was a perfect plan, Dad.

The Colonel is leaving, right? So it made sense that one sunny afternoon a giant moving van flying general's flags should show up to block off part of the street, filled with office supplies, records, and furniture for the new man moving in. Two guards and an officer go with the truck of course, demanding that they be allowed to empty and deliver the office supplies as quickly as possible.

"There's a war on! General what's-his-name ordered it and you'd best comply or risk the Russian Front", and all that jazz.

Gives a man a real sense of satisfaction to see some pale faced, paper-pushing corporal jump at the thought of spending the summer freezing to death in Stalingrad. For the moving truck bit I had Newkirk and Carter with me. It didn't take long to clog up the halls of headquarters with all of the "general's" supplies. In the confusion I had Newkirk slip off with a staff sergeant's uniform and change.

An hour after Carter and I left with the truck, Newkirk strode into Luftwaffe Headquarters with a clipboard and an attitude, and practically took over. He had every clerk on the main floor moving boxes and emptying ol' Johann's office out into the hall.

Intelligence reports had assured me that the colonel hadn't been around for weeks and that this was perfectly normal behavior for the little man. Just the same I had one of my contacts watching Johann's room in the hotel, in case the colonel decided to go for a stroll.

Newkirk set himself up as the new general's secretary and settled in to wait for the delivery of the maps.

The rest of us back at the Stalag covered for Newkirk at evening roll call with a human-size version of the shell game.

Everything was going perfect…and then it all went bad.

Staff Sergeant Kinchloe, my radio man, caught an unauthorized call from Hammelburg and woke me at about 0300 hours. Newkirk had called in a panic. Colonel Johann had heard about the invasion of his office and came storming in around midnight, all pomposity and righteous indignation.

Newkirk had done what he could to stand up to the little man but Johann started making phone calls, waking various officials in the area, demanding to know who this pushy new general was. Newkirk tried to stall the calls, stopping just short of cutting the phone lines out of the colonel's office.

Once he got the chance, Newkirk called the Stalag.

I spent about ten minutes thinking it over before I slipped into a general's uniform and headed out of camp.

At first it worked perfectly. I showed up, puffy eyed, rumpled, looking as if I'd just been awakened by a terrified aide, and stormed into headquarters with a underdeveloped Oberst to put down. Johann was bouncing off the walls. He'd started unpacking what the poor frightened clerks had spent the day boxing up and the office was even more of a mess than it had been before.

Johann was raising a stink about the inefficiency of generals and I caught him just as he opened his bushy mouth for another onslaught. He shrank a little when he saw my gold braid and Newkirk snapped-to with a smart salute, looking relieved. He didn't have to act for that one.

"General Hoganburger, sir. I apologize for waking you, General, but this colonel insisted. He's been tearing apart the office…and he smashed your plant, sir…"

The plant thing threw me off. I still don't know why Newkirk brought it up, but there was at least one potted plant knocked to pieces.

I did my best impression of Eisenhower and stood for a few minutes glaring and tapping my gloves against my palm. The maps hadn't arrived yet. We _had_ to keep the office until at least 1000 hours, to intercept the courier, without the big brass getting wise.

"He was using your phone too, sir."

"Really? At this hour? Who were you calling? London?" I demanded.

"London!?" Colonel Johann squeaked. "Are you accusing me of treason?"

"Why else would you obstruct the duties of my secretary, disrupt my office and break my plant!? The underground couldn't do this much damage!"

The little colonel, acting very insubordinate in the face of a general of my caliber, wasn't fazed and Newkirk's twitching was getting to me.

"I was speaking to General Burkhalter." The little man said, rocking back on his heels and looking like a wobbly, tin soldier. I was looking down at the man and he was gloating. "He is on his way and he is very upset."

I felt that old familiar friend panic start to set in and I glared at Newkirk wondering why he couldn't have told Kinch that tiny bit of news.

"You didn't tell me Al was on his way, Sergeant." I said pointedly and Newkirk's eyes darted back and forth.

He would have if he'd had the chance, he was telling me. Before I could respond there was a squeal outside.

The town was dead, the building empty but for the three of us. It wasn't hard to figure out that the squeal was a pair of brakes, and the door slamming was about to be one angry, woken-far-too-early-in-the-morning General.

Don't get me wrong, Dad. There've been worse scrapes, harder puzzles to solve. It was just that little colonel. The gleam in his eye, and the way he tried to dominate the room even though his shoulders came up to my belt. Trying to retake command when he had never really been around to have it in the first place.

I didn't like him. As an officer.

"Well…we should go and meet him, Sergeant. Mustn't leave him standing on the doorstep." I said, scrambling to get it out in failing German. Newkirk was right behind me but Johann shouted for a halt.

The way he shouted I could have sworn that he'd pulled a gun on the both of us. But when we turned he had a paper weight in his hand instead. Shaped like a railroad spike, it looked enough like a gun that I almost ducked. Almost.

"Sergeant, you have not finished cleaning my office and will not get out of your duty so easily." Johann stomped a foot down then pointed at the stupid, dumped plant in the corner.

Newkirk gave me a look…the kind of look that a drowning man gives the guys in the life boat when he realizes there isn't enough room for him.

Newkirk might slip by Burkhalter's notice, but I knew that I couldn't. I had to get out, and fast, before the General made it up the stairs.

I gave Newkirk the nod, went out the door like I was anxious to greet an old buddy, and ducked into this supply closet just before the Burkhalter rounded the first landing.

He wasn't a happy camper. The door to the supply closet was thin anyway, but at the volume that Burkhalter started tearing into Colonel Johann, and Newkirk, the barrier seemed to be a moot point.

Colonel Johann tried to get a word in edgewise. "But…but General the man was just here. He went down to greet you, I…"

"Dumkopf! There is no one here but us! And very soon, you will not be a part of that number!"

Burkhalter raged on for a little longer, then apparently glanced at his watch and realized the time. An hour till sunrise, and not that long til he would be expected at Stalag 13 either.

"Since you interrupted my sleep to complain about a general who does not exist, I will interrupt the rest of your sleep. You will give me the key to your hotel room, and you will spend the rest of the day putting this office back in order!"

The first smart thing Colonel Johann had done all night was to keep his mouth shut. I heard boots slap together and the floorboards creak has Burkhalter headed back down the stairs.

Of course the mini-colonel couldn't be expected to give up that easily. He ordered my man Newkirk to search for me.

That's about when I found this stationary. Pens, ink, paper, staples, tape, glue…a treasure trove for a public accountant, but not much good to me.

I wrote a note to Newkirk, though, and slid it under the door when he passed by.

"Get him out of here!" It said and I heard the barest of taps on the door in acknowledgement before Newkirk went to report that I was nowhere to be found. My boy the Englishman then suggested that it might be easier to find me if the colonel were to lend a hand.

Johann didn't like that. He wanted to write a letter, he said, to the Chief of Staff. That was at 0445 hours. It's almost 0955 now. About an hour ago I noticed a sprinkler head here in the closet. I've also managed to find a few boxes of matches. I've got an idea. Not a smart one, but an idea none-the-less.

Just gotta wait for those maps to get here, and I'll get things moving along.

* * *

 **End Personal Correspondance**

 **Cataloguing Note:**

No other continuations of this correspondence have been found. There is no date on the letter. Paper is slightly deteriorated and shows signs of mild water damage, and singeing on the edges. Stationary is of German design, including a water mark confirming that it originated in South Africa made by what is now called the Sappi Company. Composition of stationary confirms that it was created during WWII.

Contacted Col. R. Hogan (retired) concerning correspondence. Response follows.

* * *

Lieutenant Sumner,

I can't express my surprise at receiving this little gem in the mail this morning. So much happened during the war years, all of it top secret, that in many ways it is as if it didn't happen. I have a granddaughter who loves to hear my stories, however, and she was all smiles when she read the copy of this letter that you sent.

The details of the rest of the story are a little muddled. I am, after all, an old man now. But I remember that fire pretty well. It didn't take long for the piles of crumpled stationary to turn into a brilliant blaze, and my little closet became a smoke filled inferno.

I had to stay in the little room long enough for the smoke to be seen and the alarm and the sprinkler system to be activated. By this time, remember, Luftwaffe Headquarters was swarming with the day's activity. The alarm and the sprinklers created a mad dash for the door and our courier was nearly trampled in the process.

I could hardly see or breathe by the time I made it out of the closet but then Corporal Peter Newkirk was on the ball and snatched up the maps in the confusion. We made it out, alright, and got back to the camp without too much trouble.

Nobody could figure out how the fire started, or where the mysterious General Hoganburger went. I had a few burns and a mild case of smoke inhalation to worry about. Poor Newkirk smoked like a chimney the whole way back to camp.

I forget the excuse we used to get past Kommandant Klink but I remember the three weeks in the cooler.

You mentioned in your attached note that you were curious about the plant.

Lieutenant Sumner, if you ever want to steal secrets from the enemy, hire a pick pocket. Newkirk had been plenty busy during the day he spent moving Colonel Johann's office into the hall. He snitched more code books, secret communiques and fancy cigars out of that room than he could carry. And he'd hidden about half of it in the pot of that stupid plant.

It came as a great surprise to him when the first thing the tiny colonel did was to smash the thing to bits.

Lieutenant, you've brightened my day. I think I may call the boys together for a card game, and share this little trip down memory lane.

Sincerely,

Robert Hogan

* * *

 **End File**

 **June 18, 1975**


	2. From Jolly Ol' England

**Official Air Force Records**

 **Document No. - 198652348-C-90**

 **Date – Unknown**

 **Origin – Personal Correspondence – Corp. Peter Newkirk**

 **Alterations Made – Grammar and spelling corrected.**

* * *

Dear Blondie,

The sun rose this morning over the white cliffs of Dover miles from this hell hole I've found meself in, and I missed the sight so desperately I thought I might weep by the heartbreak. Then you walked in with your frightened pale face, gold-spun blonde hair and silver eyes, and Dover started to look like a ruddy trash dump.

I was shot down at night, you see, and didn't get the opportunity to truly appreciate the beauty of this country. This barn of yours has been my only refuge since and I was certain that I would die here, with nothing to cheer me but a rotten pile of hay and three of the saddest cows I've ever laid eyes on.

Then, this morning, you peeked in, tears filled your mercury eyes, pink lips parted in surprise and you shouted something in German that I couldn't quite make out. If only you spoke English, you would have understood the professions of love that came straight out of me mouth a second later.

The way you grabbed for that pitchfork and wielded it over me, might have caused some downed fly-boys to doubt your devotion, but not I. Unfailing faith have I, in the ultimate good of womanhood everywhere, and you are no exception.

I do hope you'll forgive me for pulling that gun on you. I never in a million years would have used it. It just isn't my style you see. But we Brits were told horrible things about you Krauts back on our home soil. The way your boys bomb the stuffing out of my hometown, could you hardly blame us. So I took an unnecessary precaution and caused your lovely frame to quake with fear and for that I do apologize.

Even worse I find that I must take my leave. I may not get far, those three holes you left in my hide haven't quite finished leaking yet, but when I do finally, bravely fall by the wayside, you can be assured that my final thoughts will be of you. The feisty, blonde lass with the pitchfork, who perforated my

* * *

 **End Personal Correspondence**

 **Cataloging** **Note:**

Above correspondence written on a piece of wax butcher paper in pencil. Analysis of final sentence indicates that the author may have been surprised while writing. The piece shows signs of wear and tear. Spotted with a substance identified as blood, probably human. Paper a common type, not specific to any region. Fibers were contained in the paper when it was folded and have been identified as wool/cotton blend, consistent with usual combination found in blankets used for farming/animal purposes. Item was stored without details as to origin.

Contacted Lieutenant (retired) Peter Newkirk.

Received following reply in form of post card, included with above correspondence.

* * *

Leftenant Sumner,

If I remember correctly you're the chap that sent that old letter to my dear friend, Colonel Hogan a few weeks ago. I haven't the foggiest notion how you came about this little marvel. I always figured it was lost to time. I just barely remember writing it. As for the explanation, I would ordinarily refer you to the text of my first children's book, "Sticky Wicket Williams", but you seem a bit old for that.

Long story short I wrote this about the time I was first shot down in Germany, long before I met Hogan or any of the others. I did some damage to my knee and holed up in a barn, only to wake the next morning to the sight of a gorgeous blonde lass standing over me, brandishing a pitchfork. When I moved, she stabbed me with it. Hurt like blue blazes.

I pulled my gun and she shrieked and went tearing out of the barn, never to be seen again. It took some time for me to figure a way of patching up and moving out, and for some reason it became vitally important to my addled brain to apologize for frightening the poor girl.

I suppose that if I hadn't stopped to write that silly note, I'd never have been captured, and wouldn't have found my way into Col. Hogan's service. Fate is a fickle and funny dame.

Best of luck with your efforts then son,

Sir Peter Theodore Newkirk

* * *

 **Additional Notes:**

Follow-up correspondence received July 20th, 1975

* * *

Leftenant Sumner,

I hope this finds you well, and that you haven't yet been swallowed by your mountains of paperwork.

Your first letter got me to thinking and wondering and I decided to take a bit of a trip back to the Rhineland. A connection with the RAF gave me a good idea of where I was shot down thirty years ago and I decided to take the Rolls Royce out for a lark and see if I couldn't find that old barn.

It isn't a farm anymore, but a commune of all things. 102-acres of land, fenced in, well-guarded and occupied entirely by nudists! These ladies and gents are completely off the radar, which is just as well as some of their countrymen aren't too keen on the free love mentality of late. Not a one of them is pale skinned like "Blondie" of old.

I must tell you, the reaction from the lady friend that I brought with me was hardly lady-like at all. She didn't share my amusement and demanded that I drop her at the bahnhof straight away. Poor dear.

But I spent a delightful week in the company of the FKK-Campingplatz and discovered that for all the emotional discomforts that full nudity might cause, there are of course benefits. As you are no doubt a man of the world I will allow you to imagine the more obvious positive results, but I am happy to say that I have met the future Lady Newkirk V. I just have to convince her to don more than a veil for the trip back home.

As for Blondie, she and her family donated the farm to the older couple that run the commune, shortly after the war. Betsy, the Mrs. Kommandant of the commune, thinks she might have a postcard from them somewhere and will send me a copy if she finds it.

Til then I must wish you the absolute best, and give you some advice. If you've never been to a nudist camp before, you should go. I hear they're all the rage in America.

Cheers,

Sir Peter Theodore Newkirk

* * *

 **End File**

 **July 21, 1975**


	3. Dear Mary Jane

**Author's Note:** If it were possible to use a strike through function with this website I would, but sadly, no. So bare with the messy 'formula' of this one. And as always, thanks for reading.

* * *

 **Official Air Force Records**

 **Document No. – 198652340-P-38, P-39 & P-40**

 **Date – January 30, 1943, February 14, 1943**

 **Origin – Personal Correspondence – Author(s) Unknown, 1** **st** **Sgt. Andrew Carter, Col. Robert E. Hogan (Retired)**

 **Note – First article appears to be a rough draft copy, written in several different hands with numerous strikeouts. These are noted with the initials SO in bold, at the beginning and ending of each marked line. Second article appears to have been written the same day, by a single hand. Final article was accumulated by myself on date of this record, after contacting 1** **st** **Sgt. Andrew Carter.**

* * *

February 14, 1943

Dear Mary Jane,

 **SO** I'm hoppin mad at you for that letter you sent me **SO**

 **SO** You're nothing more than a right ol tart for leavin a fine, handsome fellow such as myself **SO**

 **SO** I should tell you a thing or two about air wardens, Mary Jane. They are low, despicable pigs with dogs for mothers and **SO**

Mary Jane, I got your 'dear john' letter the other day, and it made me very upset. I really thought we were supposed to be together til the end

 **SO** of the war at least **SO** of time. Our love was like the Eiffel Tower, straight and true, standing tall for all to see, a shining example of triumph in this time of strife.

 **SO** Then you ruddy well broke my heart. Since then I've been mopin about, to the annoyance of my mates **SO**

I guess I understand how it is to be lonely, and I sure am **SO** glad **SO** sorry that I wasn't there for your birthday, or that big party you threw for your ma and pa's bein together for fifty years, or for that big dance they had after the church social

 **SO** But you might have noticed I'm fightin a bleedin war. Every day I risk my very life in this dark and dangerous prison camp. Why the other day I **SO**

 **SO** But lately the bosch have been stingey with passes home **SO**

But I loved readin about them in your letters and it was almost as if I was there with you each time. I tell the fellas here about you all the time and was really lookin forward to takin you to Paris with my buddy LeBeau. See he knows these girls that **SO** work in a certain part of Paris **SO**

LeBeau knows all the nice places in Paris where we could have a romantic dinner, with candlelight and soft music, French perfume on the breeze and the best wine that money can buy. **SO** Ask your precious air warden if he can give you that **SO**

There's some nice places in Englind too that my buddy Newkirk could show us. I've always wanted to see the **SO** leaning tower of pizza **SO SO** piza **SO** big ben and the tower of London. I was hopin that we could go see those places together after we won the war and all.

Germany isn't that bad either, when we're not being shot at.

I've told you about Kinchloe a few times. He lives in Mishigan and says there are plenty of beautiful places to see there too. **SO** As long as you're prepared. **SO**

Anyway, when I got your letter I talked to Col. Hogan for a while about it, and asked **SO** if I could go home **SO** what advice he had for me. He said that there were lots more fish in the sea.

And I guess that must be true because you **SO** ruddy well found a fish right quick, dint ya? **SO** say you're happy with this air warden fella and he **SO** probably smells like old cod anyway, so good riddance **SO** sounds like someone that could probably do a good job of taking care of you. Since I'm stuck over here in Germany and can't do it myself.

So I guess this is to let you know that I got your letter, and it's **SO** a heartless thing to send to a war hero **SO** sure gonna be lonely without your letters every once in a while.

Love,

 **SO** Little Dear Who Goes Swift and Sure **SO**

Andrew

* * *

February 14, 1943

Dear Mary Jane,

I was so surprised to get your letter today. I sure thought you'd never write to me again after you told me all about that air warden fella and how you two were wantin to get married and all. I'm real surprised that anybody would just stop seein you like he did but I'm real glad.

I don't have time for a long letter cause I wanted to get this off to you. I thought it was neat how I got your letter, and got to send one to you on Valentine's day.

Love,

Andrew

* * *

January 30, 1943

Dear Mary Jane,

My name is Robert Hogan, and I'm a colonel and a POW in a camp in Germany. Recently one of the men in my barracks, Sergeant Andrew Carter got a letter from you that upset him for a few days.

He was getting a little more help than he wanted from the other men in the barracks and asked me for some advice and I asked him to show me a picture of you. I must say the boy has good taste, and I can understand why a woman such as yourself might be sought after by many of the boys at home, but I wanted to let you in on a little secret.

Every man in this camp gets a letter, every time we have mail call. I know, because I make sure of it. If I notice any of my men aren't getting letters I speak to the commandant, or the red cross and I find out why. If, for some, that tragic reason is that the man doesn't have anyone to send him letters, I make sure that I find someone.

Now Carter is a fine young man. He's talented and intelligent, and always cheerful, and I get the feeling that a lot of that had to do with you because after he got his letter he just wasn't the same Carter at all. I really thought I'd have to go out and find a new girl to send him letters but the other day Carter got another letter. I think her name was Winnifred, or it might have been Wendy. She sounded like a real nice girl, and Carter was very happy to read her letter. He said it smelled just like home, and gardenias.

He says he can't wait to take this Wendy to see the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and Big Ben in England.

I just thought I'd let you know that you didn't need to waste any of that expensive postage sending him letters anymore.

Sincerely,

Col. Robert E. Hogan

* * *

 **End File**

 **July 30** **th** **, 1975**


	4. To The Red Cross

**Author's Note:** I was reading willwrite4fics's story "Camp Tales" and absolutely enjoying myself when I came across Hogan saying something about being reported to the Red Cross. With the author's permission I have adopted the plot bunny and placed it here in "Letters". Enjoy!

* * *

 **Official Air Force Records**

 **Document No. – 198652340-O-36**

 **Date – March 4** **,** **1943**

 **Origin – Personal Correspondence –Master Sergeant Hans Schultz (German Luftwaffe)**

 **Note – Article is written in German. Was sent to Translation Department on 6-12-75. Received this date.**

* * *

Dear Red Cross,

My name is Sergeant Hans Schultz, serial number 34789, currently serving the glorious German Luftwaffe at Stalag 13. I am writing to you on behalf of a few American, English and French prisoners whom I treat daily with great respect, and would never harm for any reason whatsoever, even if they are constantly up to monkey business and are always getting me into trouble, because I am a kind and humane guard and a nice fellow besides.

Normally I try to see nothing and hear nothing, but I am deeply concerned for the prisoners, and fear that their stay here at Stalag 13 has caused their commanding officer to suffer from temporary insanity.

I of course said nothing when he, this commanding officer, tried to get the Kommandant to approve shooting the Englander by firing squad for just a little thievery. He didn't really even steal anything, and the officer wanted to shoot him! When the Kommandant, who is also a kind, and generous man, denied this officer the permission to shoot his own man, they stuffed him into a locker where he had nothing to do but clean his socks.

And there was the time that the French prisoner was becoming so sunburned inside the barracks that he was constantly complaining for a week about the pain, and the officer didn't care at all.

I have also not said anything about the time that the officer made his men build a snowman in freezing weather, even when they were so sick that they were sweating.

Nor would I mention the time that the Frenchman fell off a roof, hurt his ankle, and was forced to go back to the roof only moments later.

I am, after all, only a sergeant. And he, this officer I mean, is a colonel. But even in the German army we have rules! We are not allowed to treat the prisoners to cruel and unusual punishment, and if we have to follow that rule, then so do the prisoners!

So, I must ask you, Herr Red Cross, is it cruel and unusual for a colonel to keep his men up at all hours of the night reading from personal hygiene manuals? These poor prisoners need their sleep.

And the colonel makes them dig in the garden all the time. Even in the winter. What can be growing in the winter?

One day the colonel, this officer, made the men weave baskets all day long. All of them had to tape their hands and fingers for a week, and none of them got to keep their baskets either.

I am not even entirely certain that this colonel is actually an American. There are many times when he seems very German. He even had a beer stein that was the Fuehrer's own personal property.

Also, every once in a while German officers will come into camp with which the colonel is very friendly. He even thinks that the Italians are his allies.

I am sure you can see now why I think this man is crazy, and that he is a detriment to the health of the other prisoners.

Even so, he is a nice man for an officer, and I beg that you treat him with kindness. After all, even crazy people have feelings.

Yours sincerely,

Sgt. Hans Schultz

* * *

 **Additional Notes: Article was never mailed. Attempts to contact H. Schultz have not been successful.**

 **End File**

 **August 1, 1975**


End file.
